


A Little Unsteady

by A_Bright_Idea



Series: Hurt & Healing [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Big Brothers, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Good Big Brother Dick Grayson, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Tim Drake, References to Depression, Sad Tim Drake, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Drake and Dick Grayson Centric, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-22 05:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Bright_Idea/pseuds/A_Bright_Idea
Summary: They made an agreement at Christmas - if things got really bad, they had to call each other.When Tim finds himself spiralling into depression after a particularly harrowing case, Dick is there to help his brother pick himself back up.------A sequel to 'I'll Be Home for Christmas' - but you don't need to read that to understand it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my BatFam fic 'I'll Be Home for Christmas'. I decided I kind of wanted to write some individual fics which concentrated on Dick's relationship with each of his brothers. A lot of people wanted to see a fic centered around Tim, so I thought I'd start with him!
> 
> Thank you to my Beta EveryDarkCorner
> 
> All characters belong to DC. I own nothing.

Three dead. Tim stared at the pictures on his computer. The six images were laid out in a grid, two by three—the before and after. Happy smiling faces above, broken corpses below.

_I did this._

He turned from the screen and back to the TV blaring in the background. It was a rerun of the morning news story. It was strange seeing the Court House through the lens of a camera, and hearing the jeer of the people…Five hours ago, he stood among that crowd, waiting for the verdict. Seeing it now on a TV screen almost made it feel unreal—it was all so quick, so clear and so concise on the news. In person it took hours, and Tim hadn’t even heard the sentence being announced—the roar of triumph erupting through the crowd had told him. Guilty.

It was only later that Tim received the details. Carl Benton, a former politician and big-wig, had been sentenced for eight life-times—eight, for the number of people he’d killed. Justice had been served, they said. Benton—the so-called Silk Strangler—would never terrorise the people again.

Tim felt cold—utterly cold. He had tracked Benton down, beaten him, and delivered him to the police with all the evidence they needed to lock him away…But he’d taken too long.

When Bruce sent Tim the case, Benton had already killed five people. Batman was doing a massive clean-up in Gotham, after another Arkham escape, so it had been up to Red Robin. Tim had thrown himself into the case, had followed the clues, living on a diet of caffeine and dry cereal. But Benton had eluded him, night after night. By the time Tim had gotten him, three more were dead.

Drew Hodging. Elizabeth Marrow. India Wakeman.

Dead. Because Tim hadn’t been fast enough. Smart enough. Ruthless enough.

When the verdict had been announced, Bruce had called to congratulate Tim, in that way that only Bruce could: “An efficient job.”

 _No it wasn’t,_ Tim though. _Efficient would have been catching him before he killed again._

He didn’t say it out loud though. He knew Bruce was already thinking it—that Tim had let him down. That this was the extent of his ability.

_A disappointment._

The image changed on the TV, as an interview came up. Tim’s stomach jolted when he saw the woman. _Maria Hodging—_ Drew Hodging’s Aunt.

“We will never recover what we lost,” she was saying, and though she wasn’t crying, there was something deeper, and aching in her face. Like tears would be a relief. “But because of the hard work of our police, and because of the intervention of Red Robin, my family can sleep tonight, knowing Drew got justice—”

Tim switched the TV off, his whole chest on fire. He clutched his hand up to it, and trying to regulate his breathing. Shivers ran down his body, and he bent forward and rested his head between his knees. A pressure was building up through him, hard and uncomfortable. It made it difficult to swallow, and Tim wasn’t sure if he was going to be sick. His head swam.

 _Justice,_ he thought. _I didn’t get him justice. I let him get killed._

*

 

The guilt didn’t go away. Tim continued his work, quiet and efficient. When he was fighting, balancing on that delicate edge between ‘survival and death’, the empty, gnawing feeling abated, if only for a while. But the moment he returned home, it came back.

He realised he’d stopped tasting things after a few weeks. It wasn’t that he lost his senses; they just became dulled. It was the coffee that tipped him off. He was on his fifth cup before he realised he’d been drinking one of the expensive, artisan types Dick brought him for Christmas. He stared at the cup, trying to remember the last time he’d really noticed anything like flavour. Taking a sip, if he concentrated, he could just pick out the rich aromas…But they were hard to find. The coffee was just hot—liquid caffeine, to stimulate his brain. He could have dropped a caffeine pill into boiling water, got the same effect.

Tim tried to make sure his diet was at least balanced—that he ate regularly, and well. Poor diet would affect his work…Which could get people killed…

But the pleasure of eating was gone. He never craved a cheat-day pizza, or grabbed a cone of ice-cream when he was off duty. And if he didn’t remind himself and set his alarm, he forgot to eat entirely.

It was his sleep patterns, oddly enough, which finally woke him up to the real extent of the problem. Tim got into bed one evening, slept through six alarms, and woke up twenty four hours later, unable to move, his body heavy with exhaustion.

_I can’t function like this. I can’t work properly like this._

So he called Dick.

“Hey, kiddo!” Dick was a ray of sunshine, bright enough to shift that pressing ache in Tim’s chest.

“Hey, Dick,” he said, and his voice gave him away instantly.

Dick was immediately on the alert. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Tim broke off. “You remember last Christmas, we made that agreement?”

“That we’d reach out to each other, if something was up?”

“Yeah.” Tim covered his eyes with his arm. “I guess this is me officially reaching out.”

A long pause. “Have you called the others?”

“No. No, I don’t—Bruce can’t know about this.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m sorry, Dick. I know you’ve got your own shit, but—”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Dick broke him off. “None of that, Timbo. You don’t need to explain. It’s fine. Whereabouts are you?”

“My apartment.”

“I’m on my way, OK? Give me an hour.”

The weight on Tim’s chest doubled, and he gasped slightly, blinking. “Thanks, Dick.”

*

Dick got there in forty-five minutes. Tim gave him a key to the apartment long ago, so Dick didn’t even bother knocking—just let himself in.

The apartment was dark, and quiet, and though Tim knew he could have navigated it in absolute silence, Dick made plenty of noise as he removed his shoes and padded down the corridor.

 _I’m here_ —those footsteps said— _I’m not a threat._

“Tim?” Dick stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, peering in.

Tim managed to lift his head from the pillow. “Hey,” he croaked.

“Hey kid. Can I turn on the light?”

“No. Please.”

“OK, kiddo.” Dick approached slowly, and came and sat on the side of the bed. “Can I give you a hug then?”

Tim didn’t know where the strength came from, but in an instant he launched himself up and into Dick, piling against his chest. Dick grabbed him, tugging him in close with the same urgency. Tim’s breath came out ragged, and he curled his fingers into Dick’s sweater. Dick rubbed slow, soothing circled across his back.

“It’s OK. I’ve got you, Timbo. I’m here.”

The shaking only intensified. Tim’s teeth chattered. He wasn’t even cold—not outside. It was all inside.

Inside, he felt hollowed out.  Distant. Like a ghost, experiencing the world through a grey fog. His mind slowed to a lethargic crawl, while everything around him sped up, until Tim almost seemed to lose time…

The hug went on for altogether too long, and not long enough. Dick finally manoeuvred Tim away, but his hands moved up to Tim’s shoulders, holding him in place. Tim couldn’t look Dick in the eye, but he felt his brother’s searching, intelligent gaze as he evaluated the situation.

“You haven’t been eating enough.”

“I tried,” Tim said.

“When was the last time you went outside?”

“What day is it?”

Dick was quiet for a long moment. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be this bad, Tim.”

Tim ducked his head. “Sorry.”

“No—don’t apologise. I didn’t mean that to come off as a reprimand.” Dick sighed, his fingers tightening on Tim’s shoulders. “Can you look at me?”

Tim reluctantly raised his head. Dick’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. He looked tired, Tim realised, with dark circles under his eyes, and guilt twisted in Tim’s stomach.

_Dick’s been struggling with his own shit. I shouldn’t have called him._

Dick seemed to catch the thought. “Hey, stop looking so guilty—we had an agreement, remember? You did the right thing calling me.”

“I could have…I could have called one of the others.”

“You could have. But you didn’t,” Dick said, his voice patient. “There’s a reason for that.”

It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t a criticism either. Dick seemed to understand that with this problem, Tim couldn’t go to the others. That he wouldn’t. Dick was the only option.

“Did something happen?” Dick asked, and Tim couldn’t describe how much that question meant to him. Dick understood—he really understood. Sometimes the emptiness had nothing to do with anything, and sometimes it was served to him on a platter with a fresh, new trauma.  God, how fucked up were their lives?

“The Strangler case…”

“Bruce told me you caught the guy.”

“I did.”

Dick frowned. “Do you think you made a mistake? Is he innocent?”

“No!” Tim said, with a sudden burst of energy. “No—he’s guilty as hell, and he deserves to rot in prison for the rest of his life, and then some!”

Dick blinked. “OK,” he said slowly.

Tim dragged in a rugged breath. “I took too long,” he said. “Solving it. I took too long.”

“Tim,” Dick gasped, “The police have been after him for months. You caught him in three days.”

“Yeah, and he escalated his attacks because he knew I was onto him!” Tim replied. “He killed three people, Dick. Three people that I should have been able to save! I have all the evidence, I had everything I needed to crack it! But I—”

Dick dragged him into another hug. “Stop,” he commanded, and it wasn’t Dick Grayson speaking all of a sudden; it was Nightwing. It was Batman. Tim’s mouth snapped closed. Dick held him very tightly. “I want you to repeat after me, OK? Word for word.”

“OK.”

“I am not responsible for the depraved actions of others.”

“Dick, no, I—”

“Repeat it.”

Tim sighed.  “I am not responsible for the depraved actions of others.”

“Say it again.”

“I am not responsible for the depraved actions of others.”

“Again. With emphasis.”

Gritting his teeth, Tim ground out, “I am _not_ responsible for the depraved actions of _others_.”

“There, I almost believed you that time.” Dick eased him away again, so he could look into Tim’s face. “You need to get that doctrine into your head, Tim. You need to go back to it, whenever things like this happen. It is not your fault. _It is not your fault.”_

Tim didn’t realise that he’d started crying, until the first sob raked through him. “I was trained by Batman…I’m meant to be a _good_ detective. Why did it take so long? Why wasn’t I fast enough?”

“Tim, you _were_ fast enough. You cracked a case that even Bruce was struggling with, OK? You saved lives—all of his potential future victims are walking through life now with no idea what could have happened to them…And the ones that were lost are not on you. You did everything you could.”

“I could have done more.”

“I find that hard to believe, Kid. You’re a one hundred percenter—you put your all into everything. More often than not, you put more than you can afford in to.” Dick’s hand slipped up Tim’s shoulder to the back of his neck. He squeezed it, as if sensing the tension. The heat of Dick’s hand eased the taut muscles, and Tim sobbed louder.

“No matter what I do, it doesn’t end,” he gasped. “It just never ends. I…I feel like this is an impossible task, and I’m set to lose. How can we win, Dick? For every psycho we put away, another’s ready to take his place.”

Dick hummed quietly, not letting go of Tim as he rocked backward and forward, hands pressed up to his face to stifle the flood of tears.

“I feel like that too, sometimes,” Dick said. “You know the saying ‘Can’t see the wood for the trees’? It’s like that. Except you can’t see the trees for the wood.  You’re thinking too big, Tim; you’re trying to take the whole world onto your shoulders.”

Tim actually managed to laugh. “Pot. Kettle.”

“Hah—yeah, I’m guilty of it too. I think we all are. We want things to be better, and we somehow all decided it was up to us alone to do it. But you and me, Tim, we’re a bit different from Damien, and Bruce and Jason…Because we believe in good. So when that belief gets challenged, it feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under us. And it would be really easy to descend into the darkness and give up the hope that things will get better…But that’s not us, Tim. Not you, not me.” Dick rested his head against Tim’s. “I know it’s hard to believe right now, but the world is getting better. You don’t remember what Gotham was like ten years ago. Twenty years ago. Sometimes we inch forward so slowly we don’t see the progress, but things have improved. They always do…And when it’s hard to see the bigger progress, you’ve got to focus on the small victories.” Dick was quiet for a moment. “It’s hard for you to do that at the moment, isn’t it?”

Tim nodded.

“I understand. You did the right thing calling me, Tim.”

“How can I save anyone like this?” Tim murmured.

“Let’s start by saving you?” He stood up, and Tim immediately missed the contact. But Dick didn’t go far. He picked his way across the messy room toward the cupboard, and pulled out Tim’s suitcase.

 “Listen,” Dick said, “how about you come and stay with me for a bit in Blüdhaven? I’ll be honest—it would do me some good too.”

“I should have asked…How’s everything going?” Tim sniffed, accepting a tissue to wipe his face.

“There are good days, and bad days.” Dick rested his hand back in Tim’s hair. “So? What do you say?”

Tim thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that, actually.”

“Good.” Dick smiled. “Why don’t you go take a shower,  and I’ll grab your things.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Whooooo!  
> Also, I've been watching Titans, and I really like it! Anyone else watching it?

Dick’s apartment was nice, but made Tim’s skin crawl. It was one of the odd things Tim had noted about all of the Robins—each had strange similarities with another, but all of them were totally different when it came to their rooms. Tim was messy—he’d always been messy. Bruce hated it, and often berated him, but Tim could never think properly when things were too tidy. He needed the clutter. The chaos. The stimuli all around him.

Jason was the polar opposite. For all they said about Red Hood being the lose canon, he was perhaps the most similar to Bruce in his habits. He was fastidious—always folded his clothes, kept everything neat and tidy and out of the way. Everything had its place. Tim suspected the neatness was a by-product of his childhood—one of the only things Jason had been able to control, in the run-down, soul-sucking hell-hole he’d grown up in.

Damian hoarded. It was weapons, mostly, but also souvenirs—though he _refused_ to call them that, because he was ‘nothing like that simpleton Wally West’. They were ‘trophies’. Damian carved his identity into every inch of the room, so that could be no mistake of whose domain it was. Anything which was actually important to Damian, however, was never out on display. Tim had long ago realised that the ornaments and trophies were as much a façade as a statement.

Dick, however, always looked like he’d just moved into a place. There was always at least four unpacked boxes somewhere, the furniture was basic, and there were hardly any homely touches. Even Jason’s painstaking tidiness was better than _this._

Dick had been living in his apartment in Blüdhaven for years now, and the only decoration was a couple of picture frames which Dick had placed on a side table in the living room. The first photograph was of Dick with Wally, Roy, Kori and Barbara. The second was of their family, Dick, Bruce, Damian, Alfred, Tim, and Jason.

“I feel like I’m at a hotel…A really minimalistic hotel,” Tim said, looking around the barren apartment. He suspected Dick only came back here to sleep and shower, and maybe occasionally eat. It certainly wasn’t a place to live.

“I know, I know,” Dick said. “Carny life…I guess I’m still a little too used to packing up and moving at short notice.” He stood in the kitchen doorway, holding two mugs. “Kori was complaining about it too…Maybe you can help me make this place feel more welcoming?”

Tim accepted the drink, turning his nose up when he was saw it was tea, rather than coffee. Dick lowered himself onto the sofa with a yawn.

“You could start by putting some pictures up. Maybe unpacking?”

Dick thought about this. “OK, how about this?” he said. “You’ve got free reign.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve got to go to work during the day, so yeah—you want to decorate the apartment while I’m out, put up my pictures, make it feel like home? Go ahead.”

To anyone else, it would have looked like Dick was benefitting from free labour, but Tim understood the magnitude of the offer. There was a _reason_ Dick lived like this, just like there was a reason Tim kept his mess…And Dick was offering to let Tim unpack that part of him, to settle him into Blüdhaven in a way that he’d barely even settled into Gotham…

All so Tim could feel at home here, too.

“I might need to get you some new stuff,” Tim said.

“I guess I’d better leave you my credit card, then.”

“Are you serious?” Tim raised his eyebrows. “Kind of risky, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if you were Jason or Damian…We’ll just agree on a budget, OK?” Dick said.

 

*

 

Tim started by painting the walls. He did it himself, his sleeves rolled up, an apron strapped around him. The apartment was entirely white, stark and clinical, so he did an accented wall in each room. He decided on quiet, mellow colours, after an internal debate—soft blues, calming green, pale, buttery yellow. For the hall, he boarded the walls with a red stripe, and nothing else. It took the better part of the day, and it was only when six PM struck that the nerves attacked.

He waited anxiously for Dick to arrive. Waited to see the horror on his face.

When Dick finally did breeze in, supporting several large bags of shopping, he stopped short and took in the scene. Tim stood, tugging at his sleeves, feeling sick, waiting for the verdict. Dick’s eyebrows rose.

“The whole apartment looks different.” He smiled. “Knew I could trust you with this.”  As Tim sagged, Dick set the shopping down with a grin.  “Open the windows, the fumes are gonna choke us.”

“They’re already open—don’t touch walls!” Tim yelped as Dick elbowed past him into the kitchen, swinging the shopping bags recklessly close to the wet paint.

Next, Tim distributed Dick’s pictures evenly across the apartment. Dick only seemed to have one preference about where anything went, and that was the painting of his parents which Damian gave him for Christmas. Dick wanted this in his room.

Everything else, Tim organised depending on how personal it was, and according to the colour coding of the apartment. Tim also bought two new paintings—elegant landscapes—one for the sitting room, and one for the hall.

Next was the furniture. The table and chairs were fine, but the sofa was upright and uncomfortable, so Tim opted for something larger, brighter and softer. He fell asleep on it after it was delivered, and woke to Dick shaking him.

“I actually did a double-take when I came in. I thought I’d stepped into the wrong apartment,” Dick said.

“Sorry.”

“There’s a reason I had an uncomfortable sofa, you know. So I wouldn’t fall asleep on it.”

Tim just grinned.

That evening, like every other, they went on out patrol together. Tim never said it to Dick, but it felt a little like going out with Batman again, only a whole lot less…intense. As much as Tim admired Bruce, as much as he stood in awe of Bruce’s skills, his strength, his intelligence, running with Dick felt better. Somehow cleaner. Somehow more hopeful. It also helped that the pair just naturally fought well together—it was like instinct. Tim knew Dick’s moves and style as well as his own.

“Blüdhaven are going to think they’ve got their own Dynamic Duo,” Dick said later, over pizza, and Tim sort of liked the idea.

_*_

_In his dream, Tim was in the witness stand, giving evidence in Court. Carl Benton was sat opposite him in an orange jumpsuit, with handcuffs on, smiling at Tim, his eyes bright and menacing._

_Drew Hodging, Elizabeth Marrow and India Wakeman all stood in the jury, their eyes sightless, necks bruised, skin grey in death._

_Tim couldn’t speak. He needed to tell the truth, needed to give the damning evidence, but it was like he was trying to speak in a foreign language. The words wouldn’t come. The Jury watched him, their dead eyes demanding justice. Tim felt pressure expand in his chest, his broken words strangling out as he tried to breath—_

A yell woke him abruptly. Tim sat bolt upright in bed, instantly alert, body cool with the prickle of sweat. There was a low thump in the room next door, and Tim was out of bed, grabbing his bo-staff. He ran silently through the corridor and toward Dick’s room, weapon raised. The door was ajar, and he pushed it.

“It’s OK, Tim,” Dick said from the other side.

Tim sagged, and then straightened, letting his weapon drop. He stepped into the room.

Dick was sitting up in bed, his hair a mess. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Bad dream?”

Dick only nodded. Tim crept over to the bed, and sat on the other side, resting against the pillows. “Me too,” he admitted.

“Want to talk about it?”

“You first.”

“Hmmm. OK. But,” Dick threw the covers off and rose, “hot chocolate first.”

“How are you not fat?” Tim followed him into the kitchen.

“Does that mean you don’t want one?”

“…Can I have marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

Dick prepared the drinks in silence, and Tim noticed his hands shaking. Tim’s own chest still ached from the dream. Silently, he padded over to Dick and rested his head against his brother’s back.

Dick stilled. “Sleepover?”

Tim nodded.

They took their drinks back to Dick’s room, and both got into bed. Dick took a deep breath and told him.

“I dreamt about my parents.”

“The day they died?”

Dick was silent. “The details were all wrong—they were superheroes, and we were fighting, but the end is the same. I see them fall. And I can’t…” He outstretched his hand, as if still reaching. As it there was still a chance he could grab hold now, after all these years. Dick let his arm fall with a sigh. “Your turn.”

“I dreamt about the Benton case,” Tim said softly. “I was trying to give evidence, to put him away, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. And I knew if I didn’t speak, he’d walk, but it was like there were stones in my throat, and my brain was switched off…And he smiled at me. Like he was thanking me.”

Dick looped an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “He’s not smiling now, kid,” he said. “Not where he is.”

*

Jason broke into Dick’s apartment the next day, while he was away. Tim heard him falter in the doorway and swear.

“Shit. Did Dickiebird move?”

“No, I just redecorated,” Tim announced, as he came into the hallway from the kitchen with a large mug of coffee.

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“Same question.”

“I need to borrow some stuff—Dick said it was fine.”

“But he didn’t tell you I’d be here?” Tim cocked an eyebrow.

“Fine, I didn’t actually ask.” Jason studied Tim. “What’s the deal then, Timmy? Why are you hanging around Big Bro’s apartment?”

“He actually invited me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Tim sipped his coffee.

Jason’s eyes were shrewd. “He need your help with something?”

Tim considered what to say. “He thought I needed a change of scene.”

“The Benton case fucked you up, huh?”

Tim stiffened. “How did you—”

“You know you weren’t the only one trained by the Bat, right?” Jason eyed Tim slowly. “You’re thinner.”

“Dick’s got me on a diet of marshmallows and pizza.”

“At the same time?”

Tim actually snorted.

“What? The guy already puts pineapple on pizza, wouldn’t put it passed him.”

“Pineapple on pizza is great.”

“You two are _dead_ to me.” Jason shook his head, then marched down the hall, going around Tim and into Dick’s bedroom. Tim watched from the doorway as Jason riffled through Dick’s belongings. “So, you’re not planning on doing anything stupid?”

“If that’s your sensitive way of asking if I’m suicidal, then no.”

Jason nodded. “I noticed, you know.”

“What?”

“That when Dick was being an idiot, you recognised the signs before anyone. You’ve studied up. Which means you know how to hide it better.”

“I don’t hide my depression well,” Tim said.

“Clearly.” Jason finally found what he was looking for—a shimmering amulet Tim had never seen. Jason kissed it, and stuck it in his pocket. “Tell Dick I’ll get that back to him in a couple of weeks.”

“What is it?”

“Illusion charm—got it off Zatana.”

“And I assume you’re stealing it because you know Dick would never willingly lend it to you?”

“Oh wow. Bruce is right. You _are_ the best Detective out of all of us,” Jason deadpanned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Shut up.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Did Bruce really say that about me?”

Jason didn’t reply, ruffling Tim’s hair as he passed. “Take care of yourself, Timmy.” He waved, and left without a backward glance.

*

“That _asshole.”_ Dick scowled. “I’m gonna beat the hell out of him.”

“He said he’d return it.”

“Jason never returns _anything._ I’m gonna have to hunt him down.”

“Maybe it’s his way of inviting you over,” Tim said mildly and Dick stared at him.

“You’re in a good mood,” he noted.

“Yeah, maybe.” Tim smiled, and went back to washing the dinner dishes.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Unintentional self-harm / Panic Attack

Dick forgot his lunch the next day. Tim found it in the fridge, wrapped up and ready to go, and called his brother.

“Hungry?” he asked, and Dick groaned.

“Starving—I’m an idiot. I was going to cave and go get some street meat.”

“Street meat,” Tim snorted, “you’re such a cop.”

“I’m just adaptable.”

“Well, I’m on my way to the station now,” Tim said, crossing the street.

Dick groaned, “Tim, you’re the best.”

“I know. Can we eat together?”

“Sure.” There was a murmer on the side of the phone. “I’m just finishing up some stuff. I’ll let the others know you’re swinging by. You can wait at my desk.”

“See you then!”

Tim had never actually been inside Dick’s precinct. The closest he’d been was the roof, which he’d used as a vantage point a couple of times during work. There was a large crowd as he came in, people moving, bustling, phones ringing and criminals shouting, and the occasional burst of laughter.

A young, blonde officer spotted Tim as he came in. “Hey—you Grayson’s little brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Hah! Knew it—you two look so alike.”

“Oh…” Tim had no idea how to answer that. He was Chinese on his mother’s side, and wasn’t actually related to Dick in any way. There only physical similarity was their black hair, and even that looked different—Dick’s had that cool, almost bluish undertone, while Tim’s was nearer to a dark, dark brown.

“I mean,” the officer seemed to pick up on his hesitation, “you kind of walk in the same way. And you have really similar expressions.”

“Oh,” Tim relaxed, “yeah.”

“I’m Mary Sunder, by the way,” the officer said. “Grayson talks about you all the time.”

“He does?”

“Yeah, he’s really proud of his little brothers. He says you’re the smart one.”

Tim felt a blush creep up his face. “He’s, ur…he’s exaggerated.” Tim craned his neck to look around the room. “Is he around?”

“He’ll be out in a min—just questioning a suspect.” Sunder directed Tim to Dick’s desk. “Want a drink? We just got a new coffee machine, and the stuff is pretty decent.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“No problem.” Sunders smiled, and left him to it. Tim sat in Dick’s chair, and observed the room around him. _I like this,_ he suddenly thought—the noise, the commotion, the chaos—it set his mind buzzing.

Unable to stop himself, Tim’s eye was drawn to the case file on Dick’s desk. He flicked it open, scanning the details. It was a battery and assault case. Dick was probably questioning someone relate to it right now. Tim raised his eyebrows as he read through the report, shifting through the crime scene photographs.

 _I wonder if Dick’s noticed…_ He thought, eyeing a few details, and before he could help himself, he’d stolen a highlighter from Dick’s desk and was circling relevant information. _Perpetrator was definitely left-handed, and around five-foot four, considering the angle of the blows. Also, it was probably a woman…_

“Benton just keeps taking, doesn’t he?”

Tim froze, the highlighter falling from his hand. He looked up sharply to the two uniformed officers speaking close by.

“Excuse me,” he said, making them look around. “Are you talking about Carl Benton? The Silk Strangler?”

The two officers looked between each other. “Who are you?” one asked.

“That’s Grayson’s little brother, isn’t it?” the other said. “You know, he’s always showing us pictures.”

“I’m Tim,” Tim said, and then pushed on urgently, “were you talking about the Silk Strangler?”

“Yeah,” the first officer said.

“What do you mean he keeps ‘taking’? What’s happened?” Tim’s stomach had shrunk, and something like gravel was filling his throat.

“One of the victims—India Wakeman—her little sister committed suicide last night. Left a note saying she wanted to be with India…That scumbag Benton may be behind bars, but he as good as killed her.”

The world distorted around Tim. He felt like he’d been knocked off his feet. Blood thundered through his ears, and each draw for breath sounded like the tide coming in. His body shook.

The officers were both looking at him. “Kid, you OK?”

There was an iron band tightening around his chest. Tim couldn’t get the air into his lungs. The commotion of the station around him blurred into a single mess, until it was just a wall of sound, depthless and impenetrable, and somehow far away.  He tried to gulp in a deep breath and hold it, but it didn’t work. He felt like he’d inhaled water.

One of the officers reached out a hand to Tim, but Tim jerked back, almost falling over the seat behind him. He grabbed at the desk to steady himself, but the whole floor was swaying.

“Bath…room…” he managed to gasp out.

The officer pointed, and Tim sprinted, colliding with a police officer as he went. He didn’t slow, even hearing the shouts.

_I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe._

He barged into the toilet— _empty, thank God—_ and threw himself at a sink, bending over. He pulled at his collar, and then ripped his jumper off over his head, tearing at the seems. It still felt like he was being choked. He ripped the top button off his shirt, and then peeled it off as well.

_No good. Can’t breathe. Still can’t breathe._

He hunched over and tried to vomit into the sink, hacking and coughing.

Someone tried to open the door behind him—Tim didn’t even realised he’d locked it. There was a loud knocking. “Hey, kid are you OK in there?” it was one of the officers.

Tim couldn’t answer, his hands clenched up to his bare chest. He was having a panic attack—he knew the symptoms, had gone through them before…But every technique he’d ever learnt to try and stop it suddenly disappeared from his memory. His mind focused down to a singer point.

_Another death. Another person. My fault. My fault. My fault._

He could see the body of India Wakeman—could see her glazed, unseeing eyes and the dark welts around her neck. And then he saw Benton’s smile, that smile he’d given Tim in his dreams.

_“Thank you for making this possible for me.”_

Tim lashed out with a howl, and then again. He felt a sharp pressure across his fists but he didn’t care.

There was a crash behind him, and then a set of arms were reaching around and restraining him. Tim bellowed in defiance, lifting both feet off the ground and kicking out at the sink, sending both both crashing into the bathroom door, slamming it closed.

“You bastard!” Tim screamed. “You bastard!”

“Tim! Stop! Stop!”

Fingers tightened around his wrists, crossing his arms over his chest. Tim hollered, twisting his head from side to side.

“Tim, it’s me! It’s me—just me!”

 _Dick._ The voice finally registered. _It’s Dick._

Tim stopped struggling and fell limp back against Dick, who held him tight against his chest. “It’s OK, Tim,” Dick’s voice evened out, calm and quiet, “it’s OK.”

Everything came back into sharp focus. Tim dragged in several hard breaths, Dick holding him still. Pain surged down his arms, and Tim looked down at his hands with a gasp.

There was blood dripping between his fingers, tiny splinters of glass sticking out of the knuckles. _I punched the mirror_ , he released. _That’s why Dick’s restraining me…To stop me hurting myself._

“Can you hear me, kid?” Dick’s voice shook. “I need you to try and calm down for me.”

Tim couldn’t speak, throat rubbed raw, breathing shallow and quick. He shook his head. _I can’t. I can’t._

“Yes, you can. I’m going to talk you through it. You trust me, don’t you Tim?”

Tim nodded, gasping for air.

“OK. Good. I want you to take a deep breath. That’s it. Little more. Now hold it for me. That’s right. Now out over a count of five. One, two—” Dick counted out for him, and Tim struggled to obey. There was something clawing in his chest, screaming at him that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen in. Tiny spatters of blood glistened on the floor between their legs. Dick held Tim’s hands up, squeezing hard.

 _He’s trying to use anxiety exercises,_ Tim thought, and he wanted to scream, because it wasn’t enough. He’d already _tried that._ “It’s not working!” he gasped. “It’s not—”

“Yes it is. Another deep breath, like before. Out over seven this time. Come on, Tim.”

“I can’t breath—”

“Yes you can. You’re breathing now. It’s OK. With me. Come on.” Dick inhaled deeply, his chest pressing against Tim’s back. Tim struggled to mimic him, his whole body juddering with the effort.

“That’s it. You’re doing great,” Dick murmered.

Tim shook his head. Tears fell free from his eyes, his face drenched.

“Keep going Tim. Another deep breath. Slow it down now. I’ve got you.”

Dick’s voice never faltered, and never rose above a whisper. Tim’s entire world came down to his breathing, forcing the air in and then out.

“That’s it,” Dick said. “You’ve got it. Good job.”

Tim felt like his mind had detached from his body, and he was floating a metre above it all, untied. Dick’s voice became distant, the words garbled. When Tim didn’t reply to whatever Dick had asked, Dick gave him a little shake.

“Hey,” he said, his voice piercing the veil, “you with me?”

 _I’m dissociating,_ Tim realised. “I don’t feel like I’m here.” His voice was rasped and raw, barely a breath. 

“Let’s try and pull you back in then, OK? Let’s start with something easy. Find me something you can hear in this room.”

Tim struggled for a second. “Your voice. I can hear your voice.”

“That’s good. Concentrate on that. Concentrate on what I’m saying, on how I sound.”

 _You sound like Bruce,_ Tim thought. _You sound totally in control._

It tethered Tim, drawing him back.

“OK, without losing concentration on my voice—what about smell. Find me something you can smell.”

Tim swallowed, trying to push through the haze around his senses. “I can smell…soap.”

“Good. You’re doing great, Tim. Describe it to me.”

“Sharp…Clinical…It stings my nose.”

“Yeah, it does doesn’t it. You think you can open your eyes for me?”

Tim hadn’t even realised he’d had them shut, he obeyed, his vision blurring.

“Find me something you can see.”

Tim looked across the room and struggled to hold back a sob, which almost set him off again. “Glass,” he said. “I can see glass on the floor.” It lay all across the tiles. Dick’s grip on him tightened. “I broke the mirror.”

“That’s OK—we can replace it. You’re doing really well. Find me something you can feel, Tim?”

“My hands,” Tim choked. “I can feel my hands…th-the pain…” Tim was back, conscious of every inch of his surroundings again. Layer by layer, rung by rung, Dick had peeled away the haze and helped him climb him back into his own body. Tim clung to the pain in his split knuckles, the sharp, scratching ache. He’d lost control of himself— _Bruce will be so ashamed._

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh.” Dick finally let go of Tim’s wrists, and wrapped his arms around him. Tim turned so he could bury his head under Dick’s chin, against his chest. He sobbed loudly, but the pressure in his chest was finally evaporating. The tension left his body, and all his strength ebbed away. Dick rested on hand to the back of Tim’s head, and ran his other down Tim’s back. “I’ve got you, Timbo,” he breathed. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

*

 

Dick took Tim home. He walked as if in a daze, too embarrassed to meet the eyes of any of Dick’s co-workers. The journey back seemed to pass by in a blink of an eye, the silence between them drawn out and uncomfortable. Tim was too tired to try and pull his dignity together. He felt rung-out and empty.

At home, Dick pulled him into the bathroom, and spent the next fifteen minutes plucking out the tiny, remaining splinters of glass from Tim’s hands with a pair of tweezers. He worked meticulously, head bent low, eyes narrowed. Tim could already see that there was no serious damage—which was lucky. He could have very easily severed something. He wouldn’t even need stiches.

“You’re not going to ask me what happened?” Tim finally broke the quiet.

Dick’s eyes darted up, then back down again to his work. “I already know. Michaels told me.”

Tim bit his lip. “Your co-workers are going to think I’m a basket-case,” he tried for humour, but it fell short.

“No they won’t. I told them the truth.”

“That we’re masked vigilantes trained from childhood by a man in a Bat costume?”

“That you’re suffering from PTSD.”

Tim almost jerked his hands away from Dick, but Dick held them firm. “That is _not_ the truth.”

“Isn’t it?” Dick looked up again. “The things you’ve been through, Tim…I know you think you should be strong enough, but even Bruce breaks down sometimes. It’s not just about Benton—though going after a depraved serial killer is enough to fuck anyone up—it’s all of it…It gathers up, a brewing shit-storm. Benton was just the last straw.”

“Like Kori was with you,” Tim said softly, and Dick stilled.

“Yeah. Like Kori with me.” He returned to his work. “I worked so hard to overcome my traumas, but I never allowed myself to really grieve through them…So they didn’t really go away. They just waited until I was vulnerable. They put on masks, so I didn’t recognise them…And they came for me. Your trauma is coming for you too now, Tim, and it’s wearing the face of Benton…And if you don’t acknowledge those scars, you’re never going to be able to heal them.”

Tim looked away, laughing darkly. “You sound like a shrink,” he joked.

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen a few in my time.”

“Did they help?”

“Sometimes…Hard to get the full benefit when I have to keep so much to myself though.” Dick actually snorted. “Having your truth interpreted as metaphor can get kind of exhausting.”

Tim laughed again. It slowly petered out. “I don’t know what to do, Dick…It’s never been this bad before. I don’t know if I come back from it. I don’t feel like I can ever get better.”

“I wish I could say it was easy…But I’m going to offer you something I didn’t have when I was a kid…Not because Bruce wouldn’t have accepted it, but because I didn’t let myself take the opportunity. Be vulnerable, Tim—when you’re with me, like this, you can be vulnerable. Learn the face of your horrors and traumas, and they can never sneak up on you. The worst disservice I ever did was forcing myself to be strong all the time. I closed up the hatches, like a submarine, and that was fine when I was in deep water…But when I needed to unload, I couldn’t, and my pain had no escape route, so it built up.” Dick pulled out the last piece of glass, and set it to the side. “I’m not saying that alone will cure you, but being able to open up when he need is a hell of a good coping mechanism to start with.”

Tim stared miserably at his hands, as Dick disinfected the cuts. “I wanted to be the best,” he said, making Dick look up. Tim swallowed. “All my life, I wanted to be the best. And that was easy for me, you know? I was good in class, I was good at sports, I was good with computers…When I wasn’t automatically the best at something, it felt _wrong,_ because I had a standard to uphold.”

“That’s a hell of a standard to impose on yourself.”

“Like you can talk.”

“I can talk. Because I understand.”

Tim bit his lip. “I know it doesn’t makes sense, and I’ve been trying to let go of it…But I can’t. Not completely. I think it’s just a part of who I am—a part of what drives me forward.”

“Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Dick mused.

“I feel like I’ve done nothing but fail since I became Robin. Every good job is overcast by the bad ones…Especially when I know you could have done it better.”

“Tim—”

“You’re stronger than me, Dick. You’re a better fighter, you’re better with people, you’re more acrobatic, you’re—”

“Older than you,” Dick cut over him. “With years more experience, and a different skill set that was handed to me by the pure chance of my upbringing. I know you may find this hard to believe, but you’re not second fiddle, Tim. Or third. Or fourth. You want to know why we’re so awesome when we fight together? Because we’re different, and you have strengths where I don’t.”

Tim must have looked dubious, because Dick went on.

“You say I’m a better fighter? Yeah, I probably am. But you know what that means? You’re better at strategizing ways to _avoid_ conflict than I am. You’re also a better detective than me—and that’s my literal job. Don’t think I didn’t notice your workings on my case file. And don’t think I’m not insanely jealous of your technical knowledge—I thought I was the shit with my hacking skills, but you put me to shame.”

Tim wanted to believe that, but the quiet truth lurked, unspoken between them. “You still chose Damian as your Robin,” he said.

Dick spluttered. “Well, yeah? Of course I did.” His eyes narrowed, and then widened. “Wait, shit—Tim, you think I chose Damian because he’s better than you?”

When Tim didn’t immediately reply, Dick groaned.

“Tim, when I had to be Batman, I chose Damian because he needed to be trained and shaped, while you…You were my equal. How could I treat you like a sidekick?”

Tim’s mouth slacked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously—I thought you _realised_ that. Shit, Tim, I’m sorry…I can’t believe I let you think…” Dick exhaled heavily. “I was projecting on you, I’m sorry. At that age, I was trying to get out of Bruce’s shadow, was trying to prove myself on my own—I thought that keeping you as Robin would be the biggest insult I could give. I never realised it would make you feel like that.”

Tim was reeling. “You’re not lying,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“You saw me as an equal?”

“I _see_ you as an equal.”

Tim burst into tears. He tried to cover his face with his hands, but the sharp tug of pain reminded him they were hurt, so he opted to bring his knees up and hide there. “Sorry,” he gulped. Crying twice in one day. _Pathetic._ “Sorry—I don’t know why I’m…God, I’m sorry.”

Dick scotched closer. “Hey, remember what I said about letting yourself be vulnerable. You need to cry, Tim, you cry. I’m never gonna judge you for that. Hell, where I come from, we used to cry all the time. And hug. And cuddle…Imagine how weird it was, moving in with Bruce.”

Tim both snorted and sobbed. “How are you still so good, Dick?” he cried. “How are you still so god damn good?”

“Well, Bruce make sure the darkness wouldn’t get me, like it got him,” Dick said. “I’m going to try and do the same for you, OK?” He inched even closer. “Hug?”

Tim allowed Dick to tip him over and into his arms. He sometimes wished Dick wasn’t such a good hugger, it would be so much easier to push him away if Tim didn’t feel like this was the safest place in the world.

“No human is perfect, Tim,” Dick said, into his hair, “and there’s no such thing as a perfect superhero either—despite what people think about Clark—but if you want to apply that impossible standard to anything, apply it to us…All of us. Because we’re one hell of a team, and that dynamic doesn’t work without you, Tim. In-fact, it would have never even been born, if you hadn’t arrived. So remember that, next time you think you’re not worth as much as us.”

*

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I can’t just stay here,” Tim said from where he lay across the cushions, upside down, legs propped up and over the back of the sofa. Dick was doing a handstand against the wall, slowly bending his arms so that his nose would kiss the floor, before he straightened again. Regular press-ups just weren’t good enough as a wind-down workout apparently.

“Sure you can.” Dick let out a controlled breath, sweat dripping from his face. “Add another weight.”

“You’re crazy.” Tim rolled off the sofa backwards and then hooked another of the dumbbells to the harness around Dick’s stomach. Tim was starting to really appreciate exactly why Dick _wasn’t_ fat. “And I can’t just keep free-loading off you.”

“You buy the groceries, you cook, you work with me, you redecorated my place, and you actually keep everywhere outside of your room tidy—I seriously don’t mind if you stay.”

“Dick,” Tim groaned, and fell back into the sofa. “What about you are Kori?”

“What about her?”

“You said she was off world, but she could be back any day. Won’t you want to…you know?”

Dick’s smile was wicked. “Have very loud sex on the kitchen table?”

“Why’d you have to make it weird?”

“Look, Kori’s not here, we don’t currently live together, and we’re taking things slow,” Dick said, and Tim bit his lip. “So I’m just saying, there’s no rush for you to leave.”

“I don’t want to get in the way of you two patching things up.”

“Tim,” Dick grunted, and finally stepped out of his hand-stand, his face red, “Kori and I aren’t ‘patching things up’—it’s not like that. We’re…Just working back up to things.” Seeing Tim’s expression, Dick sighed and unclipped the harness, letting the weights drop to the floor. “After what I did—”

“After what  _happened_  to you,” Tim corrected. Dick sighed again.

“Right.” Dick picked up his towel and moped his face, dropping onto the sofa. “After Mirage, Kori and I talked. And we still love each other, and we want to be together…But she understands that I’ve got to sort things out in my head a little first. It’s getting better—we’ve been on dates. I’ve even…Well, we haven’t slept together, but we’ve been intimate.” Dick flashed Tim an apologetic look, but Tim wasn’t really embarrassed. “You’re not getting in the way of things, Tim. Hell, I’ve felt more normal, more in control since you’ve been here.”

“That’s because you’re better at taking care of others than you are of yourself.”

“Right back at you, Timbo.”

“It’s not sustainable.”

“No. And I know you don’t want to stay here forever. But I actually  _like_  having you around, Tim, and whether you’re here for a few weeks, or six months, I’m happy.”

Tim scrutinised him. “I think I’m going to go back to Gotham. To Wayne Manor.”

This surprised Dick, who sat up. “Really?”

“I spoke to Bruce about it earlier, while you were at work.”

“Did you tell him you’ve been struggling?”

“Not in so many words, but…He knows.” Tim pulled at his sleeve. “He says there’s a place for me there, always. But that Damian and I will have to figure things out between us, if we’re going to be living in close proximity.”

Dick winced. “At least you two are better than you were.”

“Not like it could have gotten worse.”

“Why go back, Tim?” Dick asked. “It’s not a criticism, I just want to know.”

 Tim bit his lip, and dropped back onto the sofa. “I want to learn more. I think it’ll help. I can’t change what happened, but if I train more, maybe I can stop it ever happening again.”

“That’s…logical,” Dick said, but he sounded unsure. Then he smiled. “I guess there is no better person to train under than Bruce. Unless you want to go and find the Question?”

“That guy?” Tim shuddered. “He’s a bit too… _intense_.”

Dick through his head back and laughed. “You know the world’s ending when Batman becomes the less  _extreme_  option.”

“Bruce is the best detective in the world,” Tim said absent-mindedly.

“True,” Dick agreed. “But you’re shaping up yourself, and part of that definitely needs independence.”

“You don’t think I should go back?”

“I think it’s a great idea—Bruce can challenge you in ways I can’t. And deciding to go back, I think, is a good sign that you’re healing…That kind of structure, it’ll be good for managing your trauma and keeping you proactive. And I’ll feel better knowing you’re not alone, while you work through this. I just don’t want you to forget you have your own style now Tim. You do things different to Bruce, and he can still be a bit weird about that…”

“Yeah—his way is the only way,” Tim said, using air quotations. “Then again, his way does work.”

“So does yours. Just…I love Bruce, OK? He’s the best man I know. But I don’t want you to become him. Ultimately, he wouldn’t want that either.”

“Don’t worry,” Tim said. “I’m not falling back into an old role here. I just want to learn from the best.”

Dick leant over and ruffled Tim’s hair. “I’m going to miss having you around, kid.”

“Are you going to be OK here, on your own?” Tim asked softly.

“Yeah, Tim. I’ll be fine. But if you wanna swing around again at some point, that would be good. Always happy to have my interior designer over.”

“Oh shut up.” Tim kicked Dick, who cackled. “Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Dick’s smile softened. “Any time, little brother.”

 

*

 

“This is an official hand-over,” Dick announced as he pushed Tim toward Bruce.

Tim shook Dick’s hand off his shoulder and gave him a mock glare. “I’m not a package. Or a child.”

Watching from the above level, Damian smirked, leaning over the bannister. “Worse, you’re a deadweight teenager.”

“Push me, Damian, and you’re going to spend the next six weeks trying to break back into your own computer,” Tim said.

“Oh, you’re on Drake, I—”

“ _Damian,_ ” Bruce cut over him, “go and get changed—it’s almost time for school.”

Damian’s face screwed up, his eyes darting over to Dick in silent question. Dick raised his hand.

“I’ll say goodbye now then—I’m only here to drop Tim off.”

Tim saw the flash of disappointment in Damian’s face, but the youngest Robin quickly masked it. Tim smiled inwardly. Even demon-spawn Damian Wayne liked it when Dick was around.

“Tt—don’t see why you came by at all then. You shouldn’t have bothered. Unless Tim has gotten _so_ useless in the last few months he can’t even find his way into the Batcave anymore.”

 _Oh, he’s so jealous_   _I got to spend so much time with Dick and he doesn't_ _,_ Tim thought, as Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly already exhausted by their bickering.

“Well,” said Dick, seeing through Damian’s disappointment, “I also came to ask if any of you have a lead on where I can find Jason?”

 “What’s Todd done now?”

“He borrowed something from me. I want to smack him and get it back.”

“You can use the computers,” Bruce offered. “I’ve got to get to work, and Damian—go and change, _now._ ”

Damian rolled his eyes, but turned and left.

“See you later, Damian,” Dick called after him, but Damian only waved over his shoulder.

Tim picked up his bags. “I’m going to drop my stuff off upstairs.” He leant into a hug from Dick, who slapped him lightly on the back.

“I’ll speak to you soon, Timbo.”

“Yeah.” Tim squeezed Dick around the waist and then stepped back, and started up the stairs, out of the cave.

*

“What kind of state is he in?” Bruce asked, as they watched Tim disappear into the darkness above.

“He’s healing, but just watch out for him,” Dick said quietly. “I think this is a battle he’s going to have for life.”

“I’m glad he called you.”

“Me too. And I’m glad he’s here—it’ll do him good.”

“All of you always have a place here, Dick. No matter what,” Bruce said. “I hope you know that.”

Dick slung an arm around Bruce’s shoulder. “I sure do, Papa Bat.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Dick laughed, letting go.

“Too much?”

“Hm.”

“Bat Dad?”

“Hmmm.”

“Daddy Bats?”

“I’m going now.” Bruce turned away.

“Just Dad then,” Dick said, and Bruce faulted mid-step. He looked back at Dick, who was smiling. “If that’s OK?”

Bruce stared at him. “Come by again soon,” he said. “We miss you.”

Dick grinned. “You’re gonna end up with a full house again, if you’re not careful.”

Bruce snorted, and started up the stairs. “I’ll see you soon, Dick.”

Dick waved to Bruce as he disappeared off, then turned to the large computer. “Right,” he said to himself, dropping into the seat, “if I were a hot-headed, gun-totting thief with a stolen magical amulet, where would I be?”

Almost as soon as he said it, a file pinged up on the screen. He blinked, perplexed and opened it. Tim had sent him an email from upstairs.

_A starting point. Tell Jason I say hi._

A grainy image of Jason leaping off the side of a building was set below, with a time-stamp and location. Dick grinned.

Time for another brotherly reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! As you can probably guess, the next fic will focus on Dick and Jason's relationship, but the other Bats should also make an appearance! Thank you all for reading, and I'll try to get the new story up in a couple of days.


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